Dark Corners
by Late2SGA
Summary: The teammates struggle to reach the Gate after an attack occurs during a routine visit to a contact... Takes place S3, between Vengeance and First Strike. ShepWhump. Team fic.


~ Dark Corners ~

An Author's Note follows the story.

Word Count: 6176

Characters: Sheppard, Rodney, Teyla, Ronon. Some Weir and Keller.

Rating: K+/T- ... for a bit of Sheppard Whump.

Warning: Vague reference to events in Michael (2.18), Irresponsible (3.13), The Ark (3.16), Sunday (3.17), Submersion (3.18) and Vengeance (3.19).

Disclaimer: 'Stargate Atlantis' and its characters are not mine. I would not have left them under the aegis of those whose interest lay elsewhere.

SGA ~ SGA ~ SGA

John Sheppard was dying. After cautiously releasing a measured breath he considered the situation. He should have seen it, put it all together sooner. In the back of his mind he'd probably known. He'd been uneasy, but he'd relied ~ with disastrous consequences ~ on past conduct. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. He could hear Rodney puffing heavily and he knew Ronon and Teyla would still give their all despite their conditions. He smiled inwardly; he'd assembled a good team. Even McKay had learned to function as an integral part of a unified group, but 'Leave No One Behind' was going to get four people killed. There was a way to save three of them. The Gate wasn't far. His people could make it to safety. Without him. John drew another careful breath. He had to make them go on alone. He smiled again. Rodney, at least, could savor the fact that he had been right...

SGA ~ SGA ~ SGA

"What do you want to bet this trip will be more trouble than it's worth?" Rodney McKay continued a one-sided conversation that had begun before the group had even left Atlantis. "It's a waste of our time, like all previous visits to this moth-eaten planet. Have we ever acquired intel of any real value?" Lack of response to his various remarks had had no effect on McKay's loquacity. "And why us, when another team could just as easily traipse into this flea-bag town to talk to the owner of the Roachside Pub?"

"The responsibility lies with us to preserve trust in our relationships with contacts," Teyla tolerantly counseled. "We cannot send someone else when that trust is between our contacts and ourselves." She continued with an encouraging suggestion, "Perhaps this time the information will be of specific value."

John heard McKay's predictable 'huh' of disbelief but refrained from entering the discussion ~ he focused on maintaining the businesslike pace he had set for the team. The Gate was situated in the town square and their objective wasn't far, but rubble lay in the streets. John stepped carefully on the uneven roadway as he eyed the skyline. Skeletal remains of broken buildings were stark reminders of former glory. For untold centuries the city had been abandoned by its architects. The current inhabitants were squatters, outsiders who were of generally suspect character. The setup reminded John of the Hole-in-the-Wall gangs of the Old West ~ whatever misdeeds a group or individual performed offworld, no questions were asked upon their return. And it was expected that no such misdeeds would be enacted on the home ground.

The team's arrival had been observed and John knew their trek to the rendezvous point was being monitored. There was evidence more people had set up residence since the team's previous visit. John ran his gaze up to the horizon. Dark clouds were beginning to dim the daylight; violent weather was a common occurrence. John hoped any storm would hold off until they finished their business and departed. The only thing worse than listening to McKay gripe was hearing him gripe in the rain.

"Good grief," Rodney exclaimed. He'd tripped over debris and barely righted himself. "Would it kill these people to do some simple cleanup so guests don't break their necks?"

"Yes."

"What?" McKay hadn't expected a literal response to the rhetorical question. "What do you mean?" he further queried Ronon.

"Dereliction provides protection. Making streets easy to travel would put the locals in danger." Ronon lectured without breaking step. "Visitors don't stay because the world appears abandoned and inhospitable. Plus overgrowth and disorder provide camouflage and viewpoints. We're being watched."

McKay being McKay meant the man had no subtlety. He rubber-necked in every direction, trying to spot watchers. "Where?"

"Just keep walking, Rodney," John advised patiently. "The sooner we arrive, the sooner we can leave." John wondered if McKay would figure out the important question was not where the watchers were hidden but why they were necessary at all. So small a population was of no interest to the Wraith. The locals were smugglers, small-time raiders, dubious traders dealing in goods of questionable origin, and unscrupulous scavengers who overlooked unwritten rules of ownership when procuring items immediately after a culling. They traveled within a distrustful society, in which intel and goods were exchanged ~ and they acquired enemies. Such was the life of rogues. The security measures were in place to discourage unwanted human interest.

Rodney was still giving a running commentary as the teammates neared their destination. John noted the new activity in the neighborhood. Evidently skullduggery in Pegasus was booming, enough that two new places of business were being created behind preserved façades of disuse. John pondered whether outlaws needed a commercial district or whether it was for the growing number of permanent residents required to provide services for the Hole-in-the-Wall class. Would there be competing businesses, so that tensions might arise between owners or between rival suppliers? That thought led to the consideration that as the population increased beyond the group of long-time 'associates' who were respectful of each member's turf, competition amongst bandits would erode the long-held, tacit implementation of 'neutral ground'. John sighed internally. The whole place would be a powder keg ready to blow.

Up ahead John observed the usual hangers-on were lingering in front of their informant's place of business. The team shouldered past the loiterers to enter the dim space. A city that had been a celebration of light and architecture was now a ghost town of rooms dully illuminated by wall sconces and lanterns. It took a moment for John's vision to adjust to the low light. The haze of smoke didn't help. Just as every culture on Earth had developed a form of moonshine and cigars, so had the worlds in Pegasus. John noticed the familiar odor of stale cooking oil.

"Ah, the local watering hole. It's so nice to be back at the ol' Roadkill Cantina." McKay took a deep breath then sneezed. "Do we have reservations?"

John met the bartender's gaze and the man angled his head to indicate the teammates should find a table. There were only two empty tables amid the additional furniture that had been squeezed into the room to accommodate a surfeit of customers. Ronon threaded his way to select the table nearest a corner. He moved a chair slightly to sit facing the bulk of the room and its occupants, although there were still people behind him. John slid a chair into position at Ronon's right and sat where he could see the door and the bartender. Teyla sat across from him. McKay pulled out the remaining empty chair and sat with his back to the room.

"Not that I'm complaining," Rodney complained, "but couldn't we just ask what he wants to tell us so we can leave ~ quickly?" Even McKay had picked up on the bar's uneasy atmosphere.

"Give it time, Rodney," John soothed. "We just got here." Their arrival had caused a brief interruption in activity, but open curiosity had waned so the noise of drinking and conversation had risen back to normal levels. John subtly scanned the room. He saw the usual servers and the large individual in the cramped kitchen. Many of the patrons he didn't know. After two or three visits annually for the last three years John was familiar with the locals, at least by sight. Dovalsh Rit and her brother were smugglers. Another family business was the scavenge-and-trade enterprise of the Hrult Clan, adults and children making up the workforce. There were others John recognized, people who had chosen a slightly shady path as a way to make a living. They were outsiders by choice and they enjoyed the lack of structure in the day-to-day pursuit of the next 'deal'. Many of them reveled in being colorful, in character and in dress.

John leaned back in his chair, careful to avoid bumping into anyone. Conversation at the table behind him dimmed to barely audible whispers. Locals would have punched his shoulder or shoved him playfully but intentionally back into position if they felt he was encroaching, but the mood in the room was different; the clientele was different. The strangers were not outsiders by choice, but people who had been cast out ~ malcontents looking for purpose, the type who would rob their own mothers at gunpoint; John thought he'd seen a gun barrel under a frayed green coat. The doubt echoed in John's mind: if the outcasts didn't fit in, why were they here and why were they allowed to stay? There were a lot of unknowns to consider while monitoring the crowd.

This was not the mission as John had envisioned it. Past visits were always 'lightweight' and without real tension. The locals knew the team made periodic trips and if anyone had considered a scheme involving the team's presence, John was still certain of his people's safety; security for everyone, including locals, lay in unwritten 'outlaw etiquette" ~ no misdeed occurred on this world. John took another look around the room, noting the furtive glances aimed from the shadowed perimeter. It was almost funny. He'd welcomed an opportunity for the team to have a pleasant journey on a routine mission. They needed the respite. Their last 'day off' seemed a lifetime ago. Indeed, a lifetime. Carson's life.

John drew a deep breath. He should have gone fishing. No one had had time to adjust or re-think. No time to accept. In the here-and-now of business-as-usual, John agreed with Elizabeth that he should keep a close eye on Teyla. The connection with the Wraith queen, even if there was no lasting effect, had surely left his teammate unsettled. Add her experience with Michael and knowing he was somewhere out there, perfecting his research... So, they were all on edge and this mission was intended as a 'holiday'. Over the din of voices and clinking glasses John heard the rumble of distant thunder. The storm was coming.

"I wouldn't eat or drink anything in this place anyway," Rodney announced, checking his watch, "but the service is terrible."

John lowered all four feet of his chair to the floor. The proprietor had canted his chin in a beckoning gesture. "He's ready."

In a gathering place where people came to make deals, a bartender could acquire information by remaining in the background and keeping his eyes and ears open. As the team approached the bar their contact wiped a glass and set it down in front of John. Three more glasses were rubbed with the towel and placed in a row on the countertop. John had to steel his features not to laugh at Rodney's look of horror as each vessel was filled. John raised his glass and sniffed the hooch, detecting a hint akin to rancid wheat. He leaned in toward the bartender to lessen the likelihood their discourse could be heard above the rising background ruckus of the imbibing crowd. Impact came from behind. A stab of pain in his lower back lanced John's breath. A blow to the head took him down and he staggered to all fours in front of the bar.

SGA ~ SGA ~ SGA

"Sheppard!" Rodney's shout was at John's ear. Glass shattered. Something dripped on John's cheek. "Can you stand?!"

John shifted his weight to one knee, preparing to hoist himself upright by gripping the edge of the bar. At the first movement to raise his arm he doubled over. Pain. He breathed in stiff, short puffs ~ if he hadn't broken a rib or two, he'd certainly bruised them. He felt Rodney reach around him to pull him to his feet. "Don't!" It was a hoarse, desperate cry. Two quick, shallow breaths. "Where are Teyla and Ronon?" John was so bent that he couldn't turn his head to see what he could hear ~ the shouting and smashing that accompanied the conflict and chaos occurring only a step away; clearly someone had violated outlaw code.

"They're holding back the mob," Rodney explained loudly as he crouched in front of John, holding Ronon's blaster on his lap. He flinched when a businesslike blade speared the bar-front mere inches from his elbow, then he flinched again at the heavy thud of a body falling to the ground nearby.

"Why do you have Ronon's gun?" John was using the time to force himself to relax against the painful breathing. His head pounded with each inhale, like a drum beat across his brow.

"It was knocked from his hand first thing after you were hit. There's no way to use it or a P90 anyway; it's so crowded there's no room to maneuver." McKay nearly fell over when someone backed into him. "Ronon's using the pugilistic approach and Teyla's stick-fighting with two broken-chair legs. They got the guy who got you, but apparently there are several of them. No one knows what's going on or who's on which side. I'm supposed to help you so we can head for the door."

John wasn't ready to move. "Check the bartender."

Hesitantly Rodney stood on his toes to peer over the bar. "He's down." He dropped to his haunches just as a shape sailed over them and crashed against the bar. More glass broke. John wiped his cheek. Rodney continued, "I can't tell how seriously, but he's out flat on the ground. Can you stand now?"

It had been perhaps half a minute, but seconds could count in an engagement. John held out his arm. "Keep me steady." With McKay's support John braced himself and rose to his feet. It was actually easier to breathe when he was more upright, but the position brought full awareness of the damage to his back; something was wrong ~ his right leg was slightly numb. He could walk, barely, with Rodney's help, but it would take time.

From his new, taller perspective John could assess the scope of the activity. There was no table unturned. Overhead lighting was insufficient to see the corners of the room, but it seemed the fray had expanded to involve everyone, whatever the original aim.

Ronon called over his shoulder, "McKay! After me!" He held a plank from a broken table in a horizontal position and employed it like a cowcatcher to shove people out of the way. John and Rodney followed awkwardly in his wake with the clatter of Teyla's sticks trailing them as she fought to protect their six.

John set each foot carefully to be sure to bear his full weight. His back throbbed and he'd begun to drag his right leg. Rodney suddenly hitched John up against his own hip, drew John's left arm over his own shoulders, and wrapped his right arm around John's waist to grab hold of John's waistband. Their pace quickened, but McKay's arm applied pressure to John's back at just the wrong spot. After several painful gasps John adapted a new breathing style to accompany the cumbersome three-legged gait.

It came as a surprise to realize they were outside ~ John had been focusing on his feet to prevent a misstep. The sky had darkened so the dimness inside the bar was not so different from the dullness of the overhead clouds. They were still being jostled by the unruly crowd that was spilling with them onto the concourse. The protection of the packed mob would disappear in the open outdoors; John couldn't hazard a guess whether there were more antagonists hidden along the path to the Gate. He drew his weapon and let it dangle at his side while he scanned the perimeter.

"Ronon!" Teyla shouted as she cleared the doorway. The big man turned. He grabbed his blaster from McKay and fired several shots into the ground to drive the drunken rabble back inside. With the plank he pushed and prodded the stragglers in through the opening, then used the board to barricade the door.

Ronon holstered his blaster. "That buys us a little time." He followed Teyla to kick and shove aside the larger obstacles she had left in place as she cleared a path.

Teyla looked over her shoulder while efficiently tossing objects to the side. "Be careful, Rodney, but be as fast as you can."

"Our head start depends on how many are in the hunting party." Ronon spoke through clenched teeth as he used his boot to roll a large boulder. "The rest," he leaned over to put his back into another effort, "are joining in because they're stupid drunk."

There was an advantage to the bar being overfilled. It would be difficult, John was sure, for a serious crew to attack the problem of the barricade in such close quarters. The rowdy mass was heard heaving at the barred door amid shouting and laughter. The team passed the first cross-street and John hoped to make it past the second; they were making pretty good time. It would probably be faster if McKay used a fireman's carry, but John wasn't certain he could tolerate that position. Even upright his head and back pulsed in time with each ungainly step.

"I think we've invented a new Olympic sport," Rodney puffed. He was off balance in order to support most of John's weight. "The Pegasus version of curling," he snarked. He added, "At least Ronon can use his blaster out here."

And so could their pursuers use any weapons they possessed. John wondered about the watchers. Had they been eliminated by the hunters or were they in on it, still observing everything from their lookout positions? John adjusted his grip on his sidearm.

The sound of minor splintering changed the plan. "This way!" Teyla shouted, and she began sweeping everything with the side of her boot to create a narrow path into the cross-street. Another creak of the weakening plank resounded just as Ronon reached for John and lifted him in a fireman's carry. John's vision dimmed in the new position; the pressure on his chest made breathing more difficult and Ronon's quick steps brought pain with each bounce. The wooden bar snapped as the team moved out of sight behind an abandoned building. The noisy throng could be heard laughing and arguing in the roadway.

At Teyla's signal McKay moved around Ronon to seek an entrance to the deserted structure. Even in John's awkward situation he could see the side street was far less traveled than the route to the Gate. Rodney was skirting debris and tangled vegetation, hopping over obstacles and stumbling on uneven ground. He disappeared around the end of the building and emerged a few seconds later, speaking quietly as he approached. "There's an opening we can crawl behind and it'll still be cover-" McKay lost his footing on the small stones that littered the ground. Like a comic actor slipping on marbles his feet flew out from under him and he landed in the untamed foliage alongside the edifice.

Flat on his back Rodney whooped for air. Teyla ran to help him and to caution him to silence. Over McKay's wheezing John could tell the babbling of the crowd was lessening; apparently most of the rabble was made up of 'stupid drunks' who preferred to return to the bar. Rodney rose to his feet with Teyla's help, only to discover he had hurt his ankle. His jackknife drop to the ground nearly brought both of them down.

Ronon adjusted his charge and carefully bypassed his teammates. He made certain each boot was planted solidly on the ground before taking the next step; the brush at the base of the wall was no match for Satedan footwear. Ronon rounded the corner, misstepped, and went to his knees in slow motion, a feat of strength and muscle control as he twisted his torso to place John against the building, where he slid gently into the greenery.

"John!" Teyla loosed a whispered shout. She danced around objects and groundcover to kneel beside John and Ronon. The big man released his burden and grimaced as he leaned forward, his breath in an uneven pattern. John was trying to catch his own breath. He drew in short, painful wisps and kept his eye on Ronon while being shifted into a sitting position by Teyla. Rodney was approaching, mewling as he hobbled. The three teammates watched Ronon, in clear distress with his arm motionless at his side, rise unsteadily to his feet. He took a stance a set distance from the corner of the building and rushed at the edge. He made a muffled, mournful howl, quieter than McKay's sharp intake of shock. John had seen the 'trick' recently ~ Ronon re-aligning his dislocated shoulder ~ and it was still disturbing to watch.

"I'm good." Ronon moved his arm and fingers in a test-run routine. He might be 'good', but John knew there was still pain and the big guy was not one-hundred per cent.

"Come." Teyla gestured at Ronon. Each one grabbed an arm and they lifted John to his feet. John walked, slowly dragging his leg, braced by the wall on one side and Teyla's support on the other. Ronon led and Rodney brought up the rear. The team traveled the short distance to the disguised entry to the hideout.

Rodney had found a good place. Behind hanging greenery and a couple dilapidated boards was the access to the broken foundation of a large building. Over time dirt had blown through deteriorating boards to create a layer where damp and shadow encouraged certain foliage. Ronon stepped through and down, then turned to guide John through the opening. Teyla was still hanging onto John's arm. When he slipped in the mossy growth she fell forward, catching herself with an awkward grip on a plank. She followed John into the dark expanse and Rodney limped in behind her. When Teyla reached back to adjust the greenery she hissed and John knew she'd been injured.

In the dimness, in the damp, the teammates settled into positions of limited comfort. John found the groundcover to be comfortable, albeit a bit wet for sitting. Rodney sat down to examine his ankle. Ronon dropped to his haunches next to Teyla, who was wincing as she massaged and swiveled her wrist.

"The Gate's not very far if we don't take the main road."

"Ronon is correct," Teyla concurred. "The main road has many twists and turns because it was meant to display the beauty of the city to visitors. Such wandering is used now to monitor the outsiders who arrive through the Gate. The distance would be dramatically less if we could take a direct route. The locals probably have cleared such a path for their own convenience."

John knew there was no alternative. He looked at Teyla and Ronon and nodded his agreement.

Ronon tapped Teyla's arm. "Let's go."

John listened to their quiet footsteps and tried to calculate how long it might take them to reach the Gate.

"I don't see why I have to come on these missions," Rodney protested. "If we have to leave everything behind but weapons because the locals respect a show of force but our equipment is a temptation, seriously, why am I here?"

The standard response was to remind McKay that they acted as a team. On this particular occasion John wished Rodney had not accompanied them. Rodney, in the city and with his equipment, was a problem-solver. As one of the injured and without his computer or even a handscanner, he was part of the problem.

"This is one of my worst nightmares," Rodney declared between puffs of discomfort. "At least in the top ten." He massaged his ankle and waggled his foot in a circular motion.

"You have ten...worst nightmares?" John asked quietly. "Is this one above or below losing the...Nobel Prize?"

"Very funny. You can't tell me that being attacked while on a _friendly_ mission isn't on your list."

Not the attack itself, but the reason behind it concerned John. Conflict was a reality of his profession. In the dim recesses of his mind he knew there could be that one, unexpected thing that would bite them in the ass. Was the bartender involved? Their mission had been compromised, the team had been betrayed.

Rodney stood and gingerly placed weight on his ankle. "I think it's getting better." He began a delicate, tentative walk on the soft, mushy ground, the sound of squishing becoming faint as he traversed the entire length of the building.

John tilted his head to the side. The tattoo of multiple footsteps echoed down the empty street outside their hiding place. The footfalls approached, passed, then came to a halt near enough John could hear one pursuer's labored breathing.

"They couldn't have gone far. We would have seen them."

"They'll head for the Gate."

"Or they'll just stay hidden and wait for backup."

"One, alone, might go through the Gate to get help."

"Or not. They could be anywhere."

A fourth voice spoke with authority. "Split up. You two, go to the Gate. Sheppard's injured. They won't leave him behind. They've stashed him somewhere. All we need is to catch one of them to get him to surrender. If we have to, we can get our own backup. Remember, a corpse brings no payment." The scrape of boots on stone scattered into eventual silence.

John recognized the voices ~ the four men who had sat at the table behind him. They hadn't been discussing the cost of drinks and the slow service and waiting for their goods, they were conferring about payment, specified time, and the satisfying result of their patience. Green coats and the barrel of a gun. Genii. Kolya might not really be gone if he had friends who would fight on without him. How secure was Ladon's rule? And beyond that, was Ladon to be trusted? Completely? Friend or foe, he needed someone with the gene if he intended to access Atlantis.

John leveled an assessing gaze at Rodney as he approached, illuminated by intervals of sunlight seeping through cracks between boards. The man was still hobbling, breathing heavily, but moving with increasing sureness and improving rhythm.

John closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. It hadn't been just a stab in the back ~ something was very wrong. The numbness was spreading and affecting his breathing. He couldn't walk. And not one of his teammates could carry him.

The odor of dampness reminded John of his grandparents' cellar. He marked the passing of time by the drip of moisture as he evaluated his mistake. He should've listened to his inner voice and gotten his people to safety. They could've come back at another time ~ or not at all. McKay was right. How much intel had they ever acquired from this informant?

John wiped moisture from above his eye. The headache was worsening and it hurt to breathe. Had Teyla and Ronon made it to the Gate so rescue was on the way? Or hadn't they found the shortcut in time, before the hunting party reached the Gate? John took a careful breath. His teammates were all ambulatory. They could make it home, working together against the hunters. But not with him. His responsibility. His team must not become pawns because he'd misjudged the limits of 'outlaw etiquette'.

Too much had happened recently. More misjudgment. Would Michael have reacted differently if he'd been told the truth early on? Had Kolya's death focused Genii attention on taking Atlantis? Above it all, John knew, he should have gone fishing.

"Rodney." At John's soft voice McKay looked up from massaging his ankle. "If Teyla and Ronon were cut off by the hunters, you three will have to leave me and go for help."

"What happened to 'we don't leave our people behind'?" Rodney snorted. "Ronon and Teyla will be here soon with backup."

John tenderly drew in breath. "There are four of them." The comment John had overheard about 'get our own backup' sounded like 'through the Gate'. Which meant locals weren't involved, but someone had leaked information about the team's visit.

That caught McKay's attention. "How do you know?"

"They were in the bar."

"Ronon and Teyla can handle four bad guys. And we can't leave you here alone because you can't even hold a gun."

John raised his sidearm and held it steady, aimed just to the right of McKay's head. "I'm not trying to be a hero, Rodney. I'll have a much better chance ~ we'll all have a better chance, if you three coordinate and bring back help. I can hold on here." He knew he'd sound more convincing if he weren't wheezing. "The fifteen-minute walk to the Gate, even if it's cut to five, will still take fifteen or more minutes with me in tow. We'll be targets."

There was indecision in McKay's face. What he might have concluded John would never know because Teyla's light footstep interrupted the debate. She was hardly out of breath.

"Ronon is at the Gate," she stated. "There are two hunters."

"He says there are four." Rodney pointed at John.

"It does not matter. We will manage." Teyla looked at John's gun. As if she had heard the conversation before her arrival and dismissed it, she instructed, "Put away your weapon, John. Ronon found tracks leading to a living space." Teyla shook out the bundle she had carried under her arm. "Someone will be cold when he sleeps tonight." She smiled. "We will drag you on this blanket. The path is narrow but mostly clear." She gestured at McKay. "Help me move him to street level."

Teyla with her sore wrist and Rodney with his sore ankle together managed to lift John to his feet ~ he could barely stand. They finally left him propped against the boards that framed the opening. After they had moved to the outside they grabbed him under his arms and hauled him backwards through the entryway.

For comfort and to reinforce the fabric Teyla folded the blanket several times for thickness. On his back, looking at the darkening sky, John thought of 'The Princess and the Pea' and every pebble in the road. McKay and Teyla, each with a corner of the blanket, moved with their own accommodating gait, but John had to admit it was working, better than he would have believed.

Through sluggish eyelids John monitored the tall structures on either side of the narrow alley as they passed his limited vision. Something dripped down his cheek. At the back of his mind he still wondered about the watchers at the Gate ~ were they still observing or were they part of the hunt?

Rodney stumbled and went down on one knee. He dropped his corner of the blanket and John's head bumped on the ground. McKay grabbed the blanket again. He was pulling his share, but the pace was slower and his movements more ungainly.

"We are almost there," Teyla announced. "Ronon sees us."

The sudden flash of Ronon's blaster was reflected off the building walls, answered seconds later by the crack of a Genii long-gun. The big man waved to Teyla and she left the alley to join him, and then to run, ducking and weaving, to the DHD.

"Rodney." His voice was only a whisper, but John had to make his point. "They'll need help. Leave me."

McKay was oblivious to John's order. He limped backwards, dragging the blanket. Red light flashed, another long-gun boom echoed in the alley, the wormhole roared into existence. Time pulled and stretched to the accompaniment of light and sound. Step by step John was hauled to the platform. Another flash and boom and Ronon went to his knees. Teyla called for a med team and rushed to help Ronon. Flash, boom and Rodney landed on his back. John's eyes closed. The Gate shut down.

SGA ~ SGA ~ SGA

"What happened?"

Ronon lowered his team leader onto the waiting gurney, then stepped back to make room for Dr. Keller to examine her patient. Only after transferring responsibility of his friend did he turn to respond to Elizabeth Weir's inquiry. "Bar fight."

"Colonel Sheppard was injured in a bar fight?" There was a tone in Weir's voice that was part disbelief and part resignation.

"More like a brawl," Rodney interpreted. "A real donnybrook."

"Got hit by a flying chair. Went down and never came back up," Ronon elaborated. He turned to the doctor. "He's been out about twenty-five minutes."

Teyla reported to Weir. "We did not confer with our contact." She added, "We thought it best to return."

"And with excellent timing, I might add," Rodney chimed in. "I was trying to keep track of all the storm activity on the way back to the Gate. A two-second interval between the lightning flash and the crack of thunder means definitely close enough for Death By Electrocution." McKay rocked on his heels.

Weir made no response to the weather report and instead looked from one team member to the next, taking in their disheveled appearance. "You were all in a barroom brawl?"

It was Teyla who explained. "The altercation commenced unexpectedly. A dispute in a corner of the room quickly spread. John was speaking to our contact at the bar when the chair hit him in the back. His forehead struck the countertop. We had to struggle against a room of engaged combatants to make our way to the door. Ronon took the lead to open a path" ~ Weir looked at Ronon, who grinned and rubbed his fist ~ "and I covered our exit to prevent interception so that Rodney could carry John."

"And he's heavier than he looks," McKay inserted grumpily.

Teyla continued her story without acknowledging the interruption. "The noise of the disturbance seemed to bring many more eager participants from outdoors. We were still wrestling against a wave of incoming joiners even after we were outside. The journey was still a slow one after we were beyond all the people because the path is strewn with obstacles. Ronon and I partially cleared some of the larger debris, but I am certain it was still very uncomfortable for John since Ronon's steps were so uneven. When we were close, I ran ahead to dial the Gate."

Keller looked up to address the group, lifting her thumb to allow the colonel's eyelid to close. She clicked off her penlight. "Did he drink or eat anything? He's flushed and showing signs of a minor allergic reaction, but he could be drugged."

"Sheppard must have had time to drink before all Hell broke loose." Rodney was snapping his fingers. "I didn't have any; it smelled like moldy socks." His eyes widened, then he frowned. "Or maybe not just an unhygienic barkeep. Maybe our trusty contact isn't actually very trusty."

Keeping her eye on the patient as she straightened, the doctor began to list the observed injuries. "He'll have quite a shiner on his left cheekbone and he'll need a couple stitches over his eye. It's not bad, despite the blood. There's some tenderness across his chest, perhaps if he struck the edge of the counter; I'll double-check his ribs when I put him under the scanner. I'll be able to say more when I have blood results, but the worst of it seems to be concentrated bruising above the right kidney. You said he was hit by a chair? Possibly impact by a chair leg."

On the gurney Sheppard rolled his head to the side and mumbled, drawing everyone's attention. Keller signaled a med tech to provide a blanket. "Cover him. He's cold."

"Not 'cold'. 'Kolya'." Rodney shook his head, perplexed. "He said it before, but I didn't hear him clearly."

"I don't- I've heard that name," Keller finished slowly.

Ronon stated, "He's dead. Be glad you never met him."

Sheppard mumbled again and moved his head restlessly. Keller leaned down to place a hand on his shoulder. "Everything is fine, Colonel." She waved the others nearer. "Your team is fine."

The colonel opened his eyes to study each face, as if for reassurance, then he scanned his surroundings in obvious confusion.

"Bar fight." Rodney uttered the terse explanation then expanded, "You went out like a light so we came back home."

Ronon smiled. "Maybe next time. Looked like a great fight."

Sheppard's expression changed, but was still intense. He slid his gaze over to Weir. "Bounty," he sighed as his eyes closed.

Rodney's mouth dropped open. He looked to Ronon and Teyla, who were standing silent in thought.

Weir nodded dismissal at the medical unit. She waited beside the team until the gurney disappeared from view. "After you've cleaned up and checked on Colonel Sheppard, I want a detailed report." She narrowed her eyes in speculation. "If he's not delusional, that 'donnybrook' may have saved his life. The question becomes whether you were all targeted, and by whom." *~*

. . .

Author's Note: The Hole-in-the-Wall gangs were outlaw groups in the American 'Wild West' of the late 1800s. The gangs' hideout was named after Hole-in-the-Wall Pass, a remote natural feature in the Big Horn Mountains in Wyoming. The site was easily defended since its limited accessibility meant no one could approach without detection. No lawmen ever gained access to the hideout.

Thunder and lightning are created at the same time. [Thunder is the sound created by the super-heating/rapid expansion of the air within the lightning channel.] Since light travels so much faster than sound, the lightning is seen before the thunder is heard. In general, light travels instantaneously and sound travels at ~1/3 kilometer per second (or ~1/5 mile per second). By counting the time between seeing and hearing 'the flash and clash' one can estimate a storm's distance. A four-second interval means the storm distance is ~4/3 km (or ~4/5 mi). It is possible to see lightning but be too far away to hear the thunder. It is also possible to hear the thunder but have missed the lightning. In general, if you can hear the thunder, you are within range of a lightning strike. [Go indoors!]

Language: 'Moonshine' originally referred to illegally distilled whiskey but now generally is any alcoholic beverage produced in non-commercial stills, i.e., home-brewed liquor. 'Hooch' is also a name for home-brew or alcohol acquired by surreptitious means. For non-English speakers, to be 'stabbed in the back' has a literal meaning, but the phrase also means to be betrayed. A 'cowcatcher' is a structure attached to the front of locomotives to push objects off the train tracks.

The Princess and the Pea (1835) is a fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen (1805-1875). In the tale a young woman's claim to be a princess is proved after a night's sleep, when she is 'black and blue' in the morning because she felt the presence of three peas placed underneath a stack of soft mattresses. This story was turned into the Broadway musical, Once Upon A Mattress (1959).

Keller did not appear in SGA until the final episode of S3. Since we can't expect to have seen nothing of her if she'd been in the city for years, I like to think she became part of the Expedition when they all returned to Pegasus after Return II (3.11). Which means she was new, but not too new to Atlantis when this story takes place.

I still have hopes of writing a full-blown, sneaky-Genii plot some day.

Thanks to my parents, for teaching by example, and a shout-out to Iuvsbruce, for counseling me that whumping Sheppard is always a good starting point for any SGA story (Happy Birthday!) and my appreciation goes to a fan who volunteered to assess whether I had 'enough words on the page' to clarify to readers certain aspects of the plot.

Feedback is always appreciated.

Thanks for reading.


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